A Different Story
by Aussiepupluvr
Summary: There's more to Sherlock than most people know. This is a look through someone else's eyes. -This is set before ASIP, and going on the assumption Sherlock and John already know each other.-
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Not mine_

 _A/N: This is my first attempt at a Sherlock_ _fic. Hope you all enjoy!_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had been acting strange. Well, strange for Sherlock that is. He was more snippy, colder in his deductions, and his explanations were far less elaborate. When Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, the only one to attempt asking what was wrong, inquired, Sherlock responded with stone faced silence. None of Lestrade's people knew what to make of the change. Most could care less, they didn't care for Sherlock anyway. Other's were just plain curious as to why he was acting more unusual, than normal. Sherlock almost never changed behavior, unless he wanted something from someone; and so far that hadn't seemed to be the cause.

Four months before had also brought out a new side to the self proclaimed Consulting Detective. A side DI Lestrade happened to like. He had known Sherlock for almost five years and in that time, he had seen Sherlock through some rough times with his drug habit. Not that Sherlock ever said thank you, or anything of the sort. Of course not, but Greg Lestrade wasn't about to let a mind like Sherlock's waste away if he could help it. Lestrade had notice that Sherlock seemed to be clean, these last few months. One could never really be certain, of course, but Sherlock just seemed more content than anyone had ever seen before. Not anymore approachable or talkative, but calm and more at peace with himself. Lestrade was happy to see it; hopeful the man was truly clean and starting a new path. Sherlock had even rented out a new flat, in a very nice part of London. Lestrade had stopped by once to ask about a case, and met a very nice older women who said she was Sherlocks Landlady. The flat was modest size and Lestrade noticed Sherlocks attempt at unpacking. While not complete, it looked more organized than anything Lestrade had seen at the other flat.

One day Lestrade texted the detective asking for his help in a murder. Sherlock responded as he always did. Nothing seemed amiss; but the moment Sherlock arrived, Lestrade knew something wasn't right. The man had a far off look in his eyes, and his body was stiff as he walked. Some whispered that he was high again, but Lestrade knew better. He had seen Sherlock at his worst and knew something else was wrong. Asking about the man's well being was never a good idea at the best of times, and this time was no different. He got a glare what would melt the coldest ice. Sherlock spent less than five minutes looking at the body, details, and evidence scattered around the room, before coldly stating a limited number of facts, and deducing who the killer was. Lestrade didn't even have a chance to ask one single question before Sherlock was out the front door. Practically running to try and catch up, the DI saw Sherlock get into a fancy unmarked black car, that drove off as soon as the backdoor had shut.

That was fourteen days ago. Every text or attempt to contact in anyway was met with a flat, _'Boring'_ , _'Not worth my time'_ , or _'Leave me alone'_ , response. The last worried Lestrade the most. No one really knew Sherlock. Oh, they knew he was cold and emotionless, at the best of times. He would freely state he's a high functioning sociopath. So why Lestrade was so worried, even he didn't truly know. He just knew something was not right in the world of Sherlock.

He was proven right, because after ten days of the _almost_ silent treatment, that's exactly what he got. Silence. For the last four days he had been trying to contact Sherlock in any way, shape, or form. Nothing worked. Calling, texting, going over to the old and new flat. The last time he went to the new flat, the landlady said he left four days ago. _"Ran out of the house, like the devil was after him"_ , she said sadly. _"He didn't say where he was going, just that he'd be gone for awhile"_. Lestrade was pleased to know that, at least at that time, the cause of his worry was still alive.

He got home late that night, knowing his wife was visiting her mother. Lestrade wanted nothing more than to sit down, have a cup of tea, and not worry about anything the rest of the night. Flipping on the light as he walked into his living room changed that. Sitting in his recliner was a man in a sharp black suit, one hand fiddling with a folded up black umbrella, while the other typed something out on an equally back mobile phone. Even as Lestrade reached for and pulled out his gun, the man spoke, not looking up.

"There is no need for that Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Who are you?" Lestrade demanded.

Still typing the man responded, "Please, have a seat", as he casually waved towards Lestrade's sofa with his umbrella.

"Really?" Lestrade asked, "You're joking, right?"

This time the man stopped, putting the phone down and looked directly at him and repeated, "Please, have a seat."

Being in command of his own unit of people, Lestrade knew an order when he heard one. Slowly he walked over to his sofa and sat down, though he never lowered his gun. Before he could ask again who he was, the man spoke.

"What's your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"What?" Lestrade was so totally thrown off guard that he dropped his gun into his lap.

"You must have some type of relationship with him, since he is helping you to solve crimes. Is he not, Greg. You don't ming me calling you, Greg, do you?"

"Umm.. no. Well, wait. Who are you?" Lestrade stammered out.

"An interested party."

"Okay, and why are you _'interested'_?"

"You seem to be the one interested in him lately."

"Well he hasn't been acting like himself. Then he just disappeared." Realizing he was answering all the questions asked of him, he stood up and practically shouted, "Oi! Who are you! Honestly, how did you get into my house, and why do you care about Sherlock!"

"As I said, interested party. Please do sit back down Greg. It makes conversation so much more pleasant."

"Pleasant." Lestrade muttered, even as he sat, still not understanding what was happening.

"Now, back to the topic of Sherlock. Why are you so insistent on contacting him?"

There was a tone in the mans voice that had Lestrade sit up straighter. It held a hint of danger, and Lestrade was tempted to raise his gun again. Instead he figured he'd just answer the question and maybe get one of his own in response. "First it was a case I wanted him to help with, but he wasn't acting right. Then he just stopped responding. He never doesn't respond. I got worried something wasn't right. Since he hadn't seemed, well normal, for Sherlock. I knew something was wrong; but I can't reach him. Now, tell me, how do you know him."

The man stared at him, and Lestrade felt like he was being analyzed. It was a look he'd seen on Sherlock at crime scenes. The man seemed to come to a decision and responded, "I'm Mycroft Holmes. Sherlocks older brother."

Lestrade's jaw almost dropped to the ground. _'Brother?'_ He didn't even know Sherlock had any family. "Wha..?" Lestrade tried to form a question, but the elder Holmes continued.

"Now, I can assure you that Sherlock is physically fine. There is no need to continue trying to contact him. He will get in touch with you when he is back in London and ready and willing to assist you." With that the man stood, putting his phone in the inside pocket of his suit, "Thank you for you hospitality Detective Inspector. And also for keeping Sherlock's mind occupied. I am sure we will meet again." The man took a step towards the front door when Lestrade's mind finally caught up.

"Oi! Wait. You said _physically_ fine, and _when_ he gets back to London. So something is wrong. What? Where is he?"

"That is not for me to divulge."

"Not for you to... You bloody broke in to my house! You can surely tell me what happened to bring you here!" Lestrade was beyond upset at this point. The man claiming to be Sherlocks brother, breaks into his house, and wont tell him anything, other than to leave Sherlock alone. Right, because he was going to leave it at that.

The man stood in front of him a took a deep breath. He tilted his head to the side as if thinking. Finally he spoke, quietly. "A mutual acquaintance of ours is a Captain in the Royal Army, serving in Afghanistan. Two weeks ago we received word he had been wounded while treating another soldier. Moments later their patrol was over run by insurgents. There was no word for ten days." The man stopped as if to compose himself, "Four day's ago we received word their unit had been found. Joh.. The Captain was still, remarkably, alive." Taking another deep breath, the man continued, "Whether he continues to survive is yet to be seen. Sherlock along with the best Doctors London has to offer have flown to Afghanistan to see to the Captain. If.. When the Captain is strong enough he will be brought back to London to continue his recovery."

Lestrade stood in shock, "Good Lord," He whispered.

"This is between you and I, Detective Inspector. If Sherlock wishes to tell you more, that is up to him." He said as he made his way to the front door.

"Of course." Before the man could leave, Lestrade said, "That must be some friend. I didn't think he had any. Always saying he doesn't have friends."

Mycroft Holmes turned to him one last time before leaving. "No, he doesn't have _'friends'_. He only has one."

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was left standing in the middle of his living room, wondering what had just taken place. So many things were running through his mind he didn't know where to start. A man had broke into his house, and he had learned more about Sherlock in the last half hour, _'it's only been a half hour?'_ he thought looking at his watch, than he had in the last five years. Sherlock has a brother, Sherlock has a friend, and most important, Sherlock cares about something other than himself. _'No matter what the outcome of that Captain fellow,'_ Lestrade thought, _'life with Sherlock Holmes, is certainly going to be different.'_

* * *

 _A/N: There you go! I may or may not add a second part, more from Sherlocks point of view. Not sure yet. We'll see._ _And I apologize to anyone reading my NCIS/Stargate fics. After a Sherlock Marathon, this would not leave my head. Hopefully I can get back to Crossing of Paths soon!_ _Thanks for reading and if you'd like, leave a review so I know how I did! -Aussiepup-_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

 _A/N: This is now from Sherlocks point of view. There will be one more part, explaining what happens after. Hope you all enjoy!_

* * *

Sherlock sat like a gargoyle in the hard plastic chair. His feet were on the edge of the seat, with his chin resting on the top of his knees; while he had his arms wrapped as tight around his legs as possible. The last two and a half weeks had been a complete and utter nightmare. Sherlock was use to having hundreds of thoughts running through his mind every minute of the day; but not the last eighteen days. No, he had one thought, just one word, take complete control over his mind. The word was like a mantra, repeated over and over again. _'John, John, John'_. Sherlock stared at the man on the bed, as he thought back to when this change in thought process had really started.

* * *

Flashback, 4 months ago...

 _The area that John was in was so far from any civilized communication it was a miracle even Mycroft had been able to set up a video call. But Sherlock didn't care about that at the moment. He was able to talk to and_ see _John, just as if he were right in front of him. Well, it was a little blurry at times, and the picture would lag behind, but all in all, it was wonderful. They talked about everything and nothing, until John turned the conversation a hundred and eighty degrees._

 _"Sherlock you need to stop." John said seriously._

 _"What?" Sherlock asked confused._

 _"You know what." John paused for a moment. "The drugs."_

 _"John." Sherlock breathed out._

 _"No Sherlock, I'm not stupid. No one told me anything, I am a Doctor, I can see these things. You need to stop. Now."_

 _"I don't know if I can." Sherlock admitted._

 _"I understand why you do it Sherlock. I really do. You want to stop being bored. You have to find a way to keep your mind occupied. I understand, but you have to stop." Once again John paused, looking off into the distance before returning his gaze back to Sherlock. He made sure to have Sherlocks attention before continuing. "If you don't stop taking any kind of drug, I wont come home."_

 _Sherlock sat in shock, his body turning cold. "What?"_

 _"I have ten months left Sherlock, but if you don't stop, I wont come home, I wont return to London."_

 _"John." His voice was barely a whisper._

 _"Like I said, I understand why you do it, but I will not, can not stand next to you and watch you destroy yourself. I can't Sherlock." John said, his voice full of emotion._

End flashback...

* * *

Sherlock made a promise that very minute to never take any type of narcotic drug again. He demanded Mycroft to come and help him clean and dispose of his stash. He even gave up his cigarets. Not wanting to disappoint John at all. Since then everything he did, he would first think, _'Would John approve of this?'_.

At that time, Sherlock knew he was not in the greatest part of London. He wanted John to share a flat with him, at least for awhile, so he needed to find a better place. Mrs. Hudson had called him just a few weeks before, _'Just checking up on you dearie.'_ and had mentioned the upstairs flat was available. The very next day Sherlock was packing and moving boxes into the new flat, while Mrs. Hudson helped sweep and clean, _'Just this once dear, I'm not your housekeeper.'_

He stared at the man in the bed, hoping he'd wake up and tell Sherlock his worry was for nothing. Sherlock's gaze drifted to the machines that were, at the moment, keeping John alive. _'John, John, John'_ Sherlock thought, willing him to keep breathing, as he looked back at Johns ghostly pale face. During the last four months life seemed to be going well. Sherlock had tried to keep himself busy so as to not become bored. He had accepted any offer Lestrade made, and even took to cleaning the flat the way John would approve of.

Sherlocks eyes flickered up to the machines again and notice the numbers were not the same as they were just a few moments ago. His breath caught in his throat and his heart skipped a beat as the machines alarms went off. A doctor and three nurses ran into the room, as Sherlock moved out of the way. While the medical team worked on John, Sherlocks mind took him back again. This time to when his breath caught and his heart skipped the first time.

* * *

Flashback 18 days ago...

Lestrade had texted him with a new case. Sherlock was excited to have something to actually _do_ with his mind. Cleaning the flat just wasn't quite cutting it this morning. As he sat in the back of the cab, he got a text from Mycroft. Knowing his brother would prefer to call than to text, he opened his phone.

 _I am sending a car for you. - MH_

 _I am headed to a crime scene. - SH_

 _I know. - MH_

 _Boring. - SH_

 _I have information on John. - MH_

What information could Mycroft have, John still had six months to go in his tour?

 _What information? - SH_

 _Just get in the car when it arrives. - MH_

 _What information Mycroft. - SH_

The phone was silent for a moment. Just as the cab pulled up behind the police tape, his phone buzzed again.

 _Reports state he is injured and missing. - MH_

Sherlock barely remembered to pay the cabbie as he got out. He didn't reply to Mycroft, knowing there was no need. Older brother had got his attention. For a moment he couldn't breath, his chest hurt as his heart pounded erratically. The flashing lights around him finally broke through the one thought running rampant through his mind _'John, John, John'_. Sherlock realized his feet had taken him to the front door of the building, where he saw Lestrade waiting for him. The DI asked him a question which he answered with a glare, wanting to have minimal conversation as possible. Sherlock looked around the room, yet he saw nothing. _'John, John, John'_ , ran through his mind. He didn't know how long he stood there, it could have been three seconds or three hours. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he knew Mycroft's car was out front. His focused sharpened enough to gaze once more and he shot off limited facts about who the murderer was. After that, he was out the door and in the car before even he realized it.

End flashback...

* * *

The nurses were gone when Sherlocks mind returned to the here and now. The doctor was talking quietly to Mycroft. _'When did he get here?'_ Sherlock wondered. He didn't care much for what they were discussing, as all that mattered to Sherlock was John. The machines still let out a steady beep and whoosh, indicating his friend was still alive. Repositioning himself back in the chair, the same way as before, he took a hard look at John. It was hard to believe that this small, pale, lifeless, person was the same, fit, strong, energetic friend, he had talked to those few months back.

He felt Mycroft come and stand behind him. They stayed like that till Mycroft moved. Sherlock thought perhaps he was leaving, as he never did do sentiment; but Mycroft surprised him. He went to the other side of Johns bed, dragging a chair with him, and sat down. After a few moments Mycroft spoke.

"The Doctor believes if John can hold his own for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, they will try to reduce the meds keeping him unconscious." The silence continued, until Mycroft spoke again. "You know,"

"Yes, I probably do." Sherlock interrupted.

"It's a miracle John has survived this long." Mycroft continued as if Sherlock hadn't spoke, also completely ignoring the look being sent his way. "Between the blood loss and the infection,"

Sherlock once again broke in and this time demanded, "Why are you here?"

"To check on John, of course?" Mycroft replied. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow in response. "And to tell you, you can turn your phone back on." Mycroft added. "I've had a quick chat with DI Lestrade, and he will not be bothering you again. Not until you contact him, and wish to return to solving his crimes, that is. Besides, I'd rather contact you, than go through someone else, to get updates on John."

For the first few days, with no word on John, Sherlock had basically ignored the Detective Inspector. Oh, he'd send one or two word responses, mainly telling him to leave him alone. Once Mycroft had called saying to get in the car, because he was going to Afghanistan, Sherlock had turned off his phone completely. He had time for one thing, one thought, and that wasn't the DI with his tiny little murder problems. _'John, John, John'_ the name had etched its self into his mind.

The last eight days had been truly horrific. Yes, John had been found, and brought to the hospital; but he was barely alive. The Doctors that Mycroft had sent along, told Sherlock straight out that there was hardly a five percent chance John would even survive the surgery. Over the last eight days, John had a total of three surgeries, and his heart had stopped four times. Every time it was harder for the medical staff to bring him back. The last time had been three days ago, and Sherlock was hopeful that meant John was fighting his way back.

"He won't be the same Sherlock." Mycroft said quietly.

Sherlock didn't look at Mycroft, he just reached out and grabbed Johns hand as he replied, "None of us will be."

* * *

 _A/N: If you liked, please review! The next part will be a continuation of 'what happens next' :)_


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